


About - Advice

by NotTasha



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotTasha/pseuds/NotTasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 1: About Suffering - Nathan ponders the ways of the world while he waits at Buck's sickbed<br/>Part 2: Advice to My Son - Buck recovers.  He has a heart to heart with Chris</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. About Suffering

**Author's Note:**

> RATING: G  
> CATEGORY: Challenge - OW  
> MAJOR CHARACTERS: Nathan  
> DISCLAIMERS: This is fanfiction. No profit involved. This story is based on the television series "The Magnificent Seven". No infringement upon the copyrights held by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, The Mirisch Corp. or any others involved with that production is intended.  
> NOTE: March 2003 Challenge, offered by Beth: The Poem Challenge. Pick a long one, short one, old one, or a new one…heck, use one of your own, which would be great. Don't include the poem in your story…this isn't about that. Do, however, post the poem. Pick any AU, as long as you have permission, or create a new one!  
> SUMMARY: Just a reflective piece from Nathan's point of view, as he continues one of his endless vigils  
> ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: This story is based on the poem, "Musée des Beaux Arts" by W.H. Auden (1907-1973). It will be included at the end of the story.  
> DATE: Originally posted March 26, 2003

Nathan pressed his hands against his face as he leaned against the small table. He watched Buck, as he had watched him for nearly two days now. In his fevered sleep, Wilmington jerked and murmured. His hands would twitch, and he'd twist about in the bed. Sometimes he'd rant and try to get to his feet. But with a little persuasion and force, and he'd settle again.

"Quiet now," Nathan would say. "Calm down." And he would blot Buck's too-hot brow, would force water or medicines down his throat until he gagged. "It's okay," he's say needlessly, for Wilmington was beyond hearing him.

Two days -- for two days now Buck suffered. Because two days ago, shots were fired. Six lawmen had come running from all corners of the town to find Buck curled on the boardwalk, lying in blood. Three strangers on horseback had been seen racing from the town.

Chris changed at that moment. A blackness seemed to settle on him. The crowd parted, like birds before a storm as he circled the horrible scene. Vin took on calculating, narrow expression as his gaze followed the path the gunmen had taken, deciding already where they were going. The two had moved as one toward the livery, not even knowing for sure if Buck would make it. This crime would not go unpunished – the men who'd done this would suffer for it.

There'd be time for worrying later – for grief even. But then, it was time for vengeance.

And JD, who'd looked like a lost lamb when he'd seen his fallen friend, went with them. He'd been torn. It might have been comical, watching the young man twist and turn, choosing to stay and then deciding to go. But something dark had risen in him when he thought that the men might get away. There was no time for indecision. When he'd ridden out after the other two, no one stopped him.

Chris and Vin didn't slow – but JD would catch them. He was an excellent horseman, after all. The three lawmen followed the three that had hurt one of their own – to run them to ground and make them pay.

Ezra and Josiah had helped Nathan tend to the tall gunslinger, carrying him to the clinic, administering ether as Nathan cut into the wound, handing him tools, offering whatever help was needed. Josiah was his usual nurse and helper in these situations. Ezra always got that distant, hunted look. He was an able helper, with steady hands, but his mind would go elsewhere.

Standish left to watch over the town once Buck was settled and had been walking ever since. Josiah came to the clinic to help minister to the ailing man, to spell the healer to let him sleep, or to sleep in the clinic so that he'd be nearby if he was needed.

Ezra just walked and walked and walked, keeping the town safe. They'd been expecting trouble ever since that gold shipment was secured in the bank. Since the thieves had disappeared empty-handed, there was still the fear that others might try where the early attempt failed. Someone had to be vigilant -- to protect them all. After all, it had been Ezra's shift when Buck had been shot. The gambler simply continued it – on and on.

There'd be little sleep for any of them. Buck, with his fever, was rarely still in that bed. Chris, Vin and JD were hunting down the men who'd try to kill one of their own – they wouldn't stop until they got them. Ezra wouldn't stop pacing the town until everyone was safe and whole and home. Josiah, trying to be a comfort to Nathan and then to Ezra, helping with Buck, assisting with watching the town, and still finding time to send his petitions to heaven, was being torn into pieces. And Nathan, well, Nathan was the town's healer. He wasn't allowed real rest.

There'd been no word of Chris, Vin and JD. Jackson's mind strayed toward them, not wanting to consider what could have happened. Three lawmen against three gunmen – anything could happen. He squeezed his eyes shut, ridding himself of such thoughts. God, let them be safe.

With a shake of his head, he opened his eyes again to the familiar, worn room – the sick room – the clinic. How many vigils had he kept here? How many more? The room was dim and quiet – filled with an ominous heaviness that was making the healer nervous.

Jackson, seeing that Buck was reasonably calm, moved toward the window. He pulled back the curtains and opened the pane, letting fresh air flow into the closed place. After breathing deeply, he looked out at the town. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, making everything bright, but a quiet breeze kept the air cool and comfortable.

A wagon jostled down the road, filled with young men, all of them laughing. One picked at a banjo and another pounded on the sideboards, trying to draw the attention of a young woman on the boardwalk. She giggled, blushed and hid her face, but she lifted the hem of her skirt as she stepped. The boys hooted in appreciation.

Two grinning children stepped from the Potter's store, holding handfuls of candy as if it were gold. Their father followed, whistling and placing a loving hand on their shoulders.

A scrawny little rooster strutted about beside the hotel. It cocked its head and pecked at something in the dirt until a cat leaped from the shadows. The chicken scolded the feline, but ran when it advanced on him. The cat was unimpressed and took a dirt-bath instead of following.

Within Digger Dave's, the piano played "Yellow Rose of Texas" and the coarse, raucous voices of the patrons tried to sing along. Someone laughed long and hard – a guffaw that only made the rest of the saloon laugh along with him.

A pair of old men played checkers outside of Bucklin's Grocery. The one with the cane was joshing the one with the long duster, and they shared a secret smile as they talked about some old memory.

Josiah emerged from the church, looking tired and old. He paused at the top step, searching for something – probably Ezra -- but couldn't find him in the usual afternoon crowds. But from his vantage-point, Jackson could spot the gambler, standing just outside the jail – watching as he had been watching since all this started. Standish recognized that he was being observed and turned his head to meet Nathan's gaze. Ezra looked a question at him, cocking his head. Nathan returned his inquiry with a gentle shake of his own head – No change. He's still hanging on. I'm fine. I don't need anything. You should get some rest; you look like hell. You should come in and see him even though he's not really awake; I'm sure it'll make you feel better. It wasn't your fault. Everyone knows it but you.

Ezra just nodded, and walked away, in the opposite direction of the church. His step was slow and his movements were without his usual flair and grace.

Grown men were playing marbles by the bathhouse. A card game was starting at the little table outside the saloon. A matronly woman paraded down the boardwalk, proud in her new dress.

Nathan sighed and marveled that life could continue. Everything should have just stopped. Everyone should be holding his or her breath. The earth shouldn't be spinning on so constantly, as if nothing were wrong.

A trio of children played tag. A baby cooed and laughed as his mother carefully helped him walk. Somewhere nearby, someone started singing in a voice that was clear and perfect and true, while further down the road a horse whinnied and a dog barked and Yosemite struck a piece of iron. 

The sun shone as it had to.

Nathan Jackson listened to the sounds of life, as he witnessed the sight of people still capable of enjoying it. Hopeful, he turned toward the bed to continue his vigil.

THE END


	2. Advice to my Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck recovers and talks to Chris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RATING: PG  
> CATEGORY: Challenge - OW  
> MAJOR CHARACTERS: Chris and Buck  
> DISCLAIMERS: This is fanfiction. No profit involved. This story is based on the television series "The Magnificent Seven". No infringement upon the copyrights held by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, The Mirisch Corp. or any others involved with that production is intended.  
> NOTE: March 2003 Challenge, offered by Beth: The Poem Challenge. Pick a long one, short one, old one, or a new one…heck, use one of your own, which would be great. Don't include the poem in your story…this isn't about that. Do, however, post the poem. Pick any AU, as long as you have permission, or create a new one!  
> SUMMARY: The conclusion to About Suffering   
> ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: This story is based on the poem, "Advice to my Son" by J. Peter Meinke (b. 1932). It will be included at the end of the story.  
> DATE: Originally posted March 31, 2003

"Hey, stud," Buck whispered as he blinked across the familiar room. Things fuzzed in his vision, but the man who sat beside him was unmistakable. Buck Wilmington would recognize him anywhere.

"Buck," Chris responded. He stretched from his position, having sat for too long after a hard ride.

"Gawd," Wilmington exclaimed. "I feel like crap."

"You should," Larabee told him. He helped his friend man sit up enough to drink some water and then rested him on the pillows. "Gave us a hell of a scare."

"Yeah," Buck admitted. "Scared myself a bit, too."

"A bit of advice," Chris continued. "Don't get shot in the gut. Ain't good for a man."

Buck chuckled lightly. "I aim to take that under consideration." Damn! He winced and shut his eyes tightly for a moment. "When'd you get back?" he asked, to deflect any concern.

"This afternoon. It's nearly night now." After Buck winced again, Chris added, "Need Nathan?"

After a quick shake of the head, Buck commented, "Naw. Ain't nuthin' I can't handle." Lord, he thought, let me handle this. The belly's a god-awful place to get shot!

"Ever'one okay?" Buck asked anxiously, opening his eyes again to search his friend's face. "Vin? JD?"

The man-in-black nodded. "Vin never lost the trail. JD – you would've been so proud of him. Goddamn, that kid has grown up."

"No one hurt?"

"We all come back sound and whole."

"You got those fellas?"

"All of 'em. One earned himself a shallow grave. The other two had more smarts and surrendered."

"The one with the black hair and the oily mustache's the one that got me."

"Well," Chris paused with this new information. "He's served his sentence. We got his friends locked up at Cedar Ridge since we didn't feel like hauling them all the way home. Had to make sure that Wilmington was still alive."

"Well, I ain't given up yet," was Buck's reply. "Aim to hang out for a while. Keep you on your toes." He grinned at Chris before continuing, "How're the others? Don't know if Nathan got any rest." He looked contemplative as he declared. "Think I saw Josiah here a time or two. Ain't seen Ezra at all."

Chris explained, "Checked in with you and Nate when we got here. Then had to go supervise the guards that finally came to get the damn gold. Went lookin' for the others afterward." He chuckled as he ran a hand through his blond hair. "Found Josiah in the church, standin' over Nathan and Ezra. The two of 'em were fast asleep in a pew, leaned up against each other. Nate was snoring to raise the dead. Seems Josiah meant to read 'em both a sermon about taking better care of themselves and they both just passed out on him. Last time I looked in, Josiah had joined them. They look like a pile of pups."

Buck laughed lightly at Larabee's unusually long discourse, careful of his healing stomach. He sighed.

Chris regarded his friend. Buck still looked like hell, but his fever had broken and Nathan had assured that he was on the road to recovery if he followed the rules set forth by the healer and kept to bed for a week. But advice wasn't always easy to take.

Buck jerked as a pain caught him, and laid a hand over his bandaged torso. "I'm too old for this, Chris," he muttered.

"Yeah, you and me both," Larabee replied, remembering the taut fear that had gripped him when he'd seen his friend laid out in the street, the red rage that had consumed him as he hunted down the shooters, the cold emptiness as he considered the worst outcome, the weary wait as Buck continued to sleep.

"Seems to me I should be settled down by now," Buck commented.

"You?" Chris asked with a chuckle. "Not Buck Wilmington."

"Hmm," Buck returned. "Not such a wild idea." After an adjustment, he settled further into his pillows. "My mama gave me lots of advice when I was a kid. I was a wild one, and she knew enough to let me run. Let me ramble all I wanted. She used to say, 'you're only young once and you shouldn't be wastin' it with seriousness'."

Chris settled in his chair, spreading his knees wide and leaning forward. "You were a terror."

"Lord," Buck murmured. "I think I aged that woman by years. Gave her a fright every other day, but as she told me…" He gestured to the dressing across his middle. "…Never know when somethin' like this is gonna happen, so you gotta live each day as if it's your last. Figure that's exactly what I've been doin' all my life."

"Keeps it interesting," Chris commented.

"Yeah, but…" Buck trailed off, the contemplative look on his hollow, pale face reminding Chris how sick the man had been… still was. "When I was a kid, we lived day-to-day most of the time, but Ma always put a bit away. A little here… a little there… savin' it for the future." His eyes narrowed, becoming moist with an old thought. "She dreamed of havin' a house. A little home just for the two of us. She dreamed of bein' a woman, a mother… just a normal…" His voice caught, as the tears formed and he had to squeeze his eyes shut.

"She was a truly amazing person," Chris said softly, looking at a spot on the floor – wondering if it was blood – figuring that since this was Nathan's place it probably was. It was amazing to think he'd never met Buck's mother – he'd been hearing about her for so many years. "An incredible woman."

"A saint," Buck added. "We lived each day to the fullest, but we always planned… always planned. She wanted me to have a normal life, to be just a kid. I grew up too fast and there was never enough money. She died b'fore she could get that life for me, that quiet, little dream-house."

"It's what every mother wants for her son," Chris stated before wryly adding, "Except maybe Ezra's."

Buck answered with a smile before continuing with, "She used to tell me all the time, life is what you make it. If you live in darkness, ain't gonna get nothin' but black." He flashed a look in his friend's direction, hoping the comment didn't get taken the wrong way.

"I like black," Larabee replied, seeing Buck's look. He pulled at his dark shirt. "I wear other colors, too, you know? Don't see why everybody always says…"

Continuing quickly to get past the comment, Buck interrupted, "She taught me to enjoy the good life, but to plan ahead. Told me to go sow my wild oats, but come back to tend 'em come fall. Plant some other vittles while I'm at it b'cause oats are only good for horses."

"Parents are always givin' advice like that. When I met Sarah, my Pa had all sorts of fine things to tell me, but mostly he wanted to know what Sarah's mother looked like."

Buck raised an eyebrow and painfully sat himself up on one elbow. "He had some designs of his own, the old dog? Always knew he was a rascal."

With a snort, Chris responded, "He told me that if I could get a look at her mother, I'd see what Sarah would look like in 20 years, see what I was in for."

Buck scratched his chin. "If I remember rightly, Mrs. Connolly was a big woman, arm like hams, with a mustache and a bald spot on the back of her head. Smelled of garlic."

Chris' face brightened at a different memory. "Gawd, I must have loved Sarah something fierce."

"Yeah, yeah you did," Buck said with a nod, sitting back again with a slow exhale. "She was somethin' special."

"Yeah," Chris replied, brushing at his knee, the smile not fading. When had things changed? he thought. When did it stop hurting to remember these little things? When did it start feeling good to think about those times? When did the dark hole start to fill in?

Buck had said nothing, respecting the silence of his friend. Chris gazed back at the ailing gunslinger, wondering what he'd done to deserve such a good friend -- who had let him take his time to heal, to get on with life – yet never let him sink so low that he couldn't come back out of that hole?

After a pause, Chris continued, "Pa gave me all sorts of advice. I didn't follow very much of it. Told me that if I wanted to keep my friends, I shouldn't work with 'em."

Buck laughed as loud as he could without literally splitting his gut. Chris responded by curling his lip in a sneer at his oldest friend and co-worker, but the expression changed to a toothy grin at his friend's merriment… to an anxious look as Buck cut off his guffaw abruptly and held his stomach.

"You okay?" Chris asked seriously, half standing, ready to go fetch the healer.

Buck waved his free hand, the other hand still clutching. "Ain't so bad. Only hurts when I laugh." After a grimace he turned to Chris again. "It's goin'. Gonna be fine. Whew!" he let out a breath. "Feels damn good to laugh though. Ain't had a reason to for a while."

"Yeah," Chris agreed. "Kinda know what you mean."

Buck shuffled against his pillows and they were both quiet again. Chris noted that Buck was drifting, his eyes didn't seem to be focusing on him any longer. "Time to listen to your elders and get some sleep," Chris said sternly.

"Elder?" Buck responded. "All of two weeks!"

"Yeah, just stop fightin' and get some rest. Otherwise I'll call in Josiah. I'm sure he can put ya to bed like he did the others."

Too tired to do anything else, Buck just blinked lethargically and sighed.

Larabee continued after a moment, "Ya know, Pa wasn't always full of crap. Gave me one or two good bits to remember."

"What'd that be?"

"Sorta like what your Ma told you. Told me to make him proud. Do the right thing." With a shrug, he added, "But that I shouldn't forget to have a good time doin' it."

"Yeah," Buck replied, his voice thick with sleep. "Figure that's what we've been doin' here, huh?"

"I figure you're right," Chris responded. "Never would have thought it, but this…" he nodded about him, to the room and the town beyond it. "What we do is damn fine work."

"Could do without the bullet holes," Buck stated with a small smirk. "But you're right. Don't think I could find a finer group of fellas to work with, a better place to be. Wouldn't have it any other way." His eyes fully closed and his face smoothed out. "It's been a mighty fine ride."

Chris leaned closer to the bed, pulling the blanket up and settling it over his friend. "And it ain't over yet," he said softly. "Not by a long shot."

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advice to my Son  
> by J. Peter Meinke
> 
> The trick is, to live your days  
> as if each one may be your last  
> (for they go fast, and young men lose their lives  
> in strange and unimaginable ways)  
> but at the same time, plan long range  
> (for they go slow; if you survive  
> the shattered windshield and the bursting shell  
> you will arrive  
> at our approximation here below  
> of heaven or hell)
> 
> To be specific, between the peony and the rose  
> plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;  
> beauty is nectar  
> and nectar, in the desert, saves –  
> but the stomach craves stronger sustenance  
> than the honeyed vine.  
> Therefore, marry a pretty girl  
> after seeing her mother;  
> show your soul to one man,  
> work with another;  
> and always serve bread with your wine.  
> But, son,  
> Always serve wine.

**Author's Note:**

> Musée des Beaux Arts
> 
> About suffering they were never wrong,  
> The Old Masters: how well they understood  
> Its human position; how it takes place  
> While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along  
> How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting  
> For the miraculous birth, there always must be  
> Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating  
> On a pond at the edge of the wood:  
> They never forgot  
> That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course  
> Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot  
> Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse  
> Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.  
> In Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away  
> Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may  
> Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,  
> But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone  
> As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green  
> Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen  
> Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,  
> Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.  
> \-- W.H. Auden (1907-1973)


End file.
